


forget the wax and the feathers

by decinq



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Graduation Blues, M/M, Valentine's Day Fanworks Exchange 2015, past Jack/Parse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 00:06:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3337322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decinq/pseuds/decinq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bittle scores against Yale and Jack acts like a son of a bitch. They’re not friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	forget the wax and the feathers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nighimpossible](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nighimpossible/gifts).



> a big heartfelt thank you to [jedusaur](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jedusaur) for organizing this exchanged. happy valentine's day ♡
> 
> thank you to [defcontwo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo) for the beta and to ruba for the constant encouragement and friendship. 
> 
> i also made a playlist for these boys, which can be found [here](http://8tracks.com/mycrycroft/that-one-crowded-hour-a-jack-bitty-fan-mix).

 

 

 

 

 

This is Jack’s favorite well-worn fantasy: he’s well regarded and plays well for a team he’s proud to be on, has a dog and a pond in his backyard that freezes over in the winter into a makeshift rink, and he’s happy in this warm, private life where the world lets him be.

 

It’s only recently that the dream has shifted. Nothing much changes, but the house smells like cinnamon instead of pine and books, and there are two dogs now and most notably: he’s not alone.

 

\\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_

****  


He’s nineteen and he’s had the better half of a bottle of his dad’s nice whiskey and Kent is pushing him away.

 

“You’re a coward,” he says to Jack, and Jack laughs, cold and quiet.

 

“You don’t know a thing about me,” Jack says. Then, “Fuck you.”

 

Parse pushes him again, and Jack stumbles backwards. “Don’t call me again,” Parse says, and two days later, Jack’s hands will shake and shake. His bottle of meds will rattle in his hand, and it will be the clearest part of the hazy memory: the stiffness in Kent’s voice, the total lack of affection.

 

Jack’s dad is famous and Jack wanted to be famous and he knew Parse wanted to be famous. He never meant for it to be the way it was. He knew he had wires that were crossed over, splintered, twisted and frayed, but he never--

 

He never meant to let his feelings get ahead of him.                                       

****  
  
  


 

 

They do, though, because Jack is stupid. And he makes a solid string of terrible decisions that are not dissimilar to the string before them.

 

He wakes up in the hospital on a Tuesday morning, and he’s all alone.

 

Parse doesn’t visit --he doesn’t call, doesn’t text.

 

Jack knows he didn’t overdose because of Kent fucking Parson, but it stings more than he thinks it should.

 

_/  _/  _/  _/  _/  _/  _/

 

 

Bittle scores against Yale and Jack acts like a son of a bitch. They’re not friends.

 

_/  _/  _/  _/  _/  _/  _/

 

Shitty has smoked a bowl and a bit and is laying on Jack’s floor waxing poetic about agency and opportunity. He starts muttering about missed chances and regret. He lost Jack a few minutes ago, and has been having an argument with himself for the last five minutes.

 

“It’s like,” Shitty says, and he tilts his head back so that he can catch Jack’s eye and smile softly in his general direction. “You know, you always want what you can’t have.”

 

Jack makes to protest, to say something about having realistic goals and determination, but Shitty waves his hands at him, “No, what I mean is like. That’s true, obviously. Greener pastures or whatever. But -- wouldn’t it be worse to know that you could have had it, but can’t anymore?”

 

“Are we talking about Lardo?” Jack asks.

 

He may fall behind in terms of social duties, or popular culture, or general life skills outside of seminar discussions and hockey, but he’s a good friend to Shitty. Always has been. They’re really very good for each other, and while Jack doesn’t know everything about Shitty’s not-relationship with Lardo, he knows that Shitty cares about her something fierce.

 

“No. I don’t know. Maybe we’re talking about you.” Shitty shakes his head. “I’m not sure how much I believe in the institution of marriage, because it’s, like, fucked, but I think I could spend any number of years with her and never get bored.”

 

“Have you said that to her?”

 

Shitty’s eyes are closed, and he says, “No,” and runs his fingers over his moustache. “You’re the only person who knows, really. I can’t just -- whatever, let’s talk about anything else. How was your class today?”

 

“Good,” Jack says. “Although I drew plays all over Bittle’s notes and he didn’t notice until after lecture was over.”

 

Shitty smirks likes he knows something Jack doesn’t, but just says, “we’ll have to see if they’re any good, then.”

 

_/  _/  _/  _/  _/  _/  _/

****  
  


Jack is sipping orange juice from a red plastic cup and leaning against the wall with Bittle, and it’s nice. Jack likes spending time with Bittle more than he ever thought he would. It’s nice in a way that not many things in Jack’s life are.

 

They’re laughing and Jack thinks that maybe Bittle is trying to flirt with him by means of some honestly weak chirps, but Bittle is also a comfortable drunk weight under Jack’s arm.

 

Everything is fine and normal until Parse shows up and says, “did you miss me?” like it means nothing at all.

 

_/  _/  _/  _/  _/  _/  _/

****  


Lardo finds him some thirty minutes later and sits beside him on the curb across from the Haus.

 

She sits beside him in silence, her can of beer held in her hands, for five whole minutes before asking, “All good?”

 

Jack nods, softly, and then after a second says, “Actually, no.”

 

“Did Parson try to talk to you?”

 

“Yes but that’s not...” Jack says. “Just -- I wish he wasn’t here.”

 

Lardo doesn’t say anything for a long moment, then says, “I know you were friends with him around the time you--” She stops short, pauses, then says, “were in the hospital. You don’t have to talk to me about that. But if it’s too hard, I can stay with you, or I can ask him to leave.”

 

Jack knows he should say _Can you stay?_ or _Would you really ask him to go?_ but instead he says, “We were, uhm--him and I weren’t...friends.”

 

“Oh,” she says, and then she takes a long pull from her beer.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Jack is grateful for so many of the things that Lardo does, but this, the quiet and calm acceptance is what he’s always liked best. She’s a good sounding board, and she’s supportive, and she’s pragmatic in a way that Shitty isn’t. Bittle always chirps them about sitting in stony silence, but one of Jack’s favourite things about Lardo is that he doesn’t have to say much to make her understand what he means.

 

                                                  

 

\\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_

 

Jack’s clearest memory of his withdrawal was a horrible moment of clarity where he understood that he had no one to blame but himself for his situation.

 

He can think back to group therapy and hospital food. He remembers wearing slippers for two months, and then having a panic attack when he laced up his skates for the first time after he was released.

 

But he also has memories, clear as day, of the elation of netting a tough shot. He can draw up the feelings of relief that come with getting a phone call from more than one NHL association to tell him he’s been having a great season. He can feel the comfort of slipping into the Haus in between classes and hearing Bittle whistling in the kitchen, can imagine the smell of cinnamon and maple sugar in the air, can picture Bittle’s startled jump when Jack pokes his head around the corner and says, “Don’t you have class now?”

 

And, when Bittle yelps and throws a dish towel in Jack’s general direction, Jack can remember the sensation of burning cheeks, of laughing a quiet, “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

****  


_/  _/  _/  _/  _/  _/  _/

 

Jack knows that his anxiety warps with his sense of time.

 

Parse comes and then he leaves. Bittle likes him as much as he likes any celebrity, Jack thinks. He takes his photo with him, but he doesn’t ask Jack about him.

 

Bittle spends a few days after the party acting a bit strange. Jack isn’t entirely sure if he’s making it up; it’s possible that his perception of Bittle’s weirdness is just his own weirdness. Except that for every time Jack looks Bittle’s way, he immediately turns away from Jack.

 

Jack suspects that Bittle is watching him, but he can’t figure out why.

 

 

 

_/  _/  _/  _/  _/  _/  _/

 

 

 

Jack is bounding down the stairs when Shitty calls, “Where you goin’, Jacky boy?” from the couch.

 

“Meeting,” Jack says as he puts on his coat.

 

He can feel Shitty’s eye roll from across the room. “With?”

 

“George,” he says.

 

“George, who?” Shitty asks.

 

“I know George,” Bittle says, peeking his head around the corner from the kitchen. “Right? It’s the same George from—“

 

“Yes,” Jack says, and he knows he sounds terse, so he adds, “Same George. It’s a secret, Bitty, you’re not allowed to tell Shitty,” and he smiles at Bittle’s wide smile and bolts for the door as Shitty climbs over the back of the couch saying, “Jack Laurent Zimm—“

 

He slams the door and jogs out onto the sidewalk quickly in case Shitty actually follows him outside.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He’s sitting across from Georgia discussing contracts not five minutes later when his phone buzzes on the table in front of him.

 

“Sorry,” he says, and reaches to put it in his pocket.

 

She smiles. “Check it, it’s fine.”

Jack can feel himself blush a bit and she laughs softly. “I’ll even look at my mine if it’ll make you feel better.”

 

He can feel his face turn a darker shade of red when he reads the text from Bittle that says, _S.O.S Jack. Shitty is threatening to mix my salt and sugar together._

 

He texts back, _hold him off for 30 more minutes. i’ll buy you maple sugar to replace any damage done (it tastes better anyway)_

 

He feels himself smiling when Bittle texts back immediately, _I already tried your maple butter, how much more will I have to suffer for the greater good?_

 

 _you liked it_ , Jack responds, and slips his phone into his pocket. “Sorry,” he says, and Georgia smiles.

 

“It’s absolutely okay,” she says. “Girlfriend?”

 

“Teammate,” Jack says. “Eric Bittle, you met him.”

 

“Cute one,” she says. “Speedy. I remember him. You’re close?”

 

Jack shrugs. “I guess so.” He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to say about it, doesn’t know what he thinks about it. Georgia knows all about his anxiety, about his overdose. He’s basically a hundred percent sure that he’s going to sign whatever contract she puts in front of him. He likes her.

 

She reminds him a bit of Lardo. She’s quiet in a way that makes Jack feel like she can probably read him like an open book. She’s pragmatic, he can tell. She’s also funny, quick on her feet.

 

And, Jack thinks, she wants him to be happy. It’s her job to take care of her team, he knows, but when they first spoke about his long and short-term goals as far as playing hockey was concerned, she was attentive and nodded along to a lot of what Jack said.

 

She smiles at him and looks him right in the eye. “I’m sure that you’ve had a lot of practice, and have had a lot of people talk to you about this in the past, but we can coach you on how to deal with the media. Step by step, whatever it is, we’ll help you handle it.”

 

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Okay, good. I mean, thank you.”

 

She nods and says, “So, about your starting salary.”

 

 

 

  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_

 

 

Jack’s on the phone with Bad Bob, who says, “Don’t you want to see about a draft? What about the Habs?”

 

“Papa,” he says, “J’aime vivre ici. I like New England. I have friends here, I like the franchise. Je ne te demande pas. Je voudrais te dire moi-même.”

 

The conversation devolves from there. Jack’s dad is never mean, never openly angry with Jack, never openly disappointed, but Jack can tell anyway. His parents are constantly afraid of triggering another overdose.

 

They don’t trust Jack as far as they can throw him, and his being at Samwell doesn’t help their relationship. Not that they even really have any kind of relationship; neither his mother nor his father know a damn thing about him. It’s fine, Jack thinks. He doesn’t remember ever really having that.

 

He remembers his mother’s fingers carding through his hair, remembers her saying, “You can do anything, mon cher;” but the sweetness always made Jack feel like she was saying, “You have to do everything.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

A few minutes after Jack ends the call with his dad, Bittle’s head peaks around the threshold of Jack’s doorway. “You okay?” He asks. “I heard French.”

 

Jack groans. “My dad,” he says. He’s on his back on his bed, and turns towards Bittle.

 

“Sorry,” Bitty says. “I’ll go.”

 

“It’s okay,” Jack says. “Can I ask you something?”

 

Bittle nods and sits on Jack’s spinning desk chair. “Shoot,” he says.

 

Jack takes a deep breath, and says, “Do your parents know you’re gay?”

 

Bittle’s eyes go a bit wide, but he says, “I’ve never said anything to them about it.”

 

Jack nods. “My parents already think I’m a disaster. I have a hard time talking to them at all. My dad’s upset that I want to play for Providence.”

 

Bittle is quiet for a long moment, and Jack watches him look at his hands. Bittle’s twisting his fingers in his lap, and Jack doesn’t know if he should say something else to fill all the space around them.

 

“I don’t know what it’s like to have an NHL player for a dad, not to mention, y’know, a really good one,” Bittle says. “But, I mean, I get not being able to talk to your parents. I’ve been a disappointment to my dad for as long as I can remember, I can’t imagine what it would do to him if I told him.”

 

Jack’s brow crinkles, and he pulls himself up to sit cross-legged on his bed so he can look at Bittle properly. It feels important and he’s not sure why.

 

“Bitty,” Jack says. “Being gay doesn’t make you a disappointment. It’s not —“

 

Bittle looks up towards Jack’s ceiling, and Jack realizes that his eyes are wet.

 

“No offense,” he says, “But living in rural Georgia…it’s different there. People are different there.”

 

Jack smiles sadly. “It must have been really hard,” he says. “Growing up so afraid. I’m sorry.”

 

Bittle shakes his head, wipes at his eyes. “It’s fine. Kids are tough.”

 

Jack wonders what Bittle’s childhood was like, how scared he must have been, how hard it must have been for Bittle to get to where he is now—so unabashedly himself—and he says, “No, Bitty. They just get that way.”

 

 

_/  _/  _/  _/  _/  _/  _/

 

 

The last time Parse kissed Jack, he said, “I don’t know how I’d do it without you.” Jack had thought: _That should be a lie._

 

Parse was going to a meeting in Los Angeles and they wouldn’t see each other until after the draft picks were done.

 

And Jack had kissed him back, and said, “I need to go, I’ll see you after.”

 

Parse had leaned into him with all his weight, kissed behind Jack’s ear, and said, “Yeah, I’ll see you on the other side.”

 

But then, the day before the draft, they fought over the phone. Parse said, “Fuck you, Jack, you’re not better than anyone just because your dad won a Cup.”

 

Jack overdosed and Parse was first pick. Parse won a Stanley Cup and Jack went to Samwell.

 

 

\\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_

 

 

Jack never planned to come out to his parents. Never once thought that saying, “Mom, Dad, I’m bi,” was a conversation he would ever need to have.

 

Parse had been one thing but two times makes a pattern, and Jack thinks: _maybe._

 

George is already onto him, and when Jack jumps over a snow bank to ask Bittle if he wants to get coffee, he’s hit with how transparent he is.

 

They walk into the coffee shop, and it’s less crowded than normal. “Wanna grab a table?” Jack asks. “I’ll grab coffees. Mugs or paper cups?”

 

Bittle nods. “Mugs are fine.”

 

Jack returns with Bitty’s disgusting mocha concoction that the barista already knows, and his own London fog. They sit around the small round table, and Jack’s legs barely fit under it.

 

Bittle looks like he was created specifically to sit in coffee shops. He’s got his mittens off and his cheeks are red from the cold and Jack thinks: _s_ _hit._

 

 

\\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_

 

Jack phones Georgia on a Tuesday night and says, “If I sign with you, I have to tell you something.”

 

“Oh, hi Jack,” she says.

 

He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he says. “That was rude. Hi Georgia.”

 

“What did you want to say?”

 

“What if something happened and I didn’t want to stay in the closet? Or I couldn’t.”

She pauses, and the silence feels like it’s eating Jack from the inside out.

 

“The media is waiting for a NHL player to come out. It wouldn’t be fun.” Jack sighs. “But,” she says, “Jack, we could deal with it. You could deal with it. The franchise will support you.”

 

“What if I was sick again?”

 

“We have therapists, Jack. We have advisors for everything. We want you to play for us, and your personal life doesn’t matter to me or the franchise unless it’s illegal.”

 

“But—“

 

“Jack,” she says, and she sounds so patient that it makes Jack feel guilty. “You’re an amazing hockey player, but if you’re worried that it’s not good for you, maybe you should consider not playi—“

 

“I want to sign with you,” he says. “It’s just…” He pushes his palms into his eyes until he sees red.  “I love playing hockey.”

 

“Okay,” she says. “That’s good to hear. Would you like me to come by some time next week with a contract for you to sign?”

 

He smiles. “You should probably send it to my agent. I don’t want to be in trouble.”

 

“Say hi to Eric for me, alright, Jack? You take care.”

 

“Thanks, George. You too.”

 

 

\\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_

 

He texts Shitty, _i just signed with providence_

 

And then two minutes later Shitty is tackling Jack to his bed and kissing Jack’s face.

 

Jack starts laughing and says,” Shitty, Shitty, stop!! Oh my god.”

 

“Jack,” he says, “Jack, Jack, Jack! I’m so proud of you.”

 

“You can’t say anything. My agent will do a press release or whatever, but.”

 

“Bitty!” Shitty yells. “Bittle!”

 

Bitty yells, “What’re y’all doin’ that is so important that you had to scream at me?”

 

Jack blushes when Shitty says, “Jack signed to Providence.”

 

Bittle smiles and says, “Jack, congratulations.”

 

“Yeah, well,” he says, “Guess you haven’t gotten rid of me yet.”

 

Bitty beams and says, “I’ll bake you something.”

 

 

\\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_

 

 

Jack, at the end of it all, just wants to be happy.

 

He’s struggled for a long time, and he’s worried about graduating. He’s worried about moving. He’s worried about where Shitty will go to law school. He’s worried about meeting new teammates, about losing old ones. He’s worried about Bittle.

 

One person can only do so many things, he understands. But he does want to have the comfort that he’s achieved at Samwell follow him into his life after graduation.

 

He thinks about how much his life has changed in the last year, how much better his hockey has been, how little his hands shake.

 

He knows that being friends with Bittle plays a big part of it. His confidence in his game and his personal life is better than it has ever been, and Bittle absolutely has inspired Jack to be better in that regard.

 

Jack thinks about how strong his game was when he played with Parson. But then he knows how much he struggled in every other aspect of his life, and he knows, really and truly knows, that Eric Bittle is the kindest person to ever enter Jack’s life.

 

And he knows that what he wants probably doesn’t exist; this imagined happiness that exists in his mind is immense; it’s probably heavy and there’s no way it’s cheap; it probably isn’t real.

 

 

\\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_

 

Jack is sitting at the kitchen table while Bittle makes dinner. Jack doesn’t know where Holster went, Ransom has been locked in the attic for hours, and Shitty and Lardo went for Italian, so the Haus is quiet.

 

Jack means to ask if he can help with dinner, but instead what he says is, “I came out to George.”

 

Bitty is quiet but Jack can see his shoulders tense.  It’s awkward and so Jack chuckles and says, “And then now to you, I guess, which makes two in a day.”

 

Bitty turns around, his wooden spoon held tight to his chest. His eyes are wide, but he says, “Thank you for trusting me.”

 

Jack grins. “Shitty say that to you?”

 

Bittle nods. “Yeah. Seemed like the right thing to say.”

 

“It’s a good thing to say. Just, uhm. I’m bi, I guess. I don’t know. I never spent much time thinking about it after Parse.”

 

Bittle keeps nodding, and says, “I had no idea. It’s okay, though. It’s good. That’s. Okay.”

 

Jack wants to change the subject, so he says, “I got a really big signing bonus. I was thinking I might, you know, buy a house.”

 

“That’s. Wow.”

 

“You can’t tweet about it,” Jack says laughing. “But maybe you’d like to, I don’t know, look at listings with me? You have good taste.”

 

Bittle serves scoops of spaghetti onto plates and sits next to Jack. “That’d be really nice.”

 

\\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_

 

 

They win their Championship game, and Jack scores twice. Bittle plays on his line and they make the best play of the game.

 

Jack is proud beyond belief, but on his way to the change room, Ransom says, “Great way to go out, hey?” and Jack’s stomach falls.

 

By the time he hits the showers, his hands are shaking and shaking. He fights to keep his breathing leveled, and rinses himself off without thought. Everyone in the locker room is celebrating and joking around, but Bittle keeps looking at Jack and then looking away when Jack looks in his direction, and he’s frowning when he thinks no one is looking.

 

Jack packs his gear into his bag and dresses. His palms have crescents cut into them from his nails, and his breathing is shallow.

 

He can feel Shitty looking at the back of his head. He’s the first ready to go, and he says, “Good game, boys,” and leaves the locker room.

 

 

 

 

 

When Bittle slips into Jack’s bedroom, Jack thinks it’s Shitty. So when Bittle’s soft whisper of “Jack?” comes from the doorway, he’s surprised.

 

Jack wipes his hand over his face and motions for Bittle to come all the way into Jack’s room. Bitty sits beside Jack on his bed. He doesn’t say anything.  Jack waits a few minutes, and when he still doesn’t talk, Jack says, “I’m sorry if I was mean, earlier. I just—I had to get out of there.”

 

Bittle nods, but still doesn’t look up from his lap. “You weren’t mean.”

 

They sit in silence, and Jack can hear his heart hammering but he can’t understand why. His breathing slows, though, and the shaking in his hands stops. He wipes his palms on his jeans, and Bittle says, “I’m scared about what I’m going to do when you and Shitty graduate.” Bitty takes a deep breath and clasps his hands tightly. “I know that’s probably selfish. I don’t want to be that way, but I can’t help it.”

 

“I’m a lot of things I don’t want to be,” Jack says, and Bittle finally looks at him.

 

“Jack,” Bittle says, and he sounds sadder than Jack has ever heard.

 

“It’s okay. I was upset. I like my life here. I don’t want it to change. I was mad. I wanted to lose, wanted Providence to tell me I couldn’t play. Or something. It was stupid.”

 

“You’re a really good player. You’ve been a good captain. We couldn’t have had anyone better.”

 

“What if I’m not good enough?” Jack says. “What if I overdose again?”

 

“You are good enough,” Bittle says. “It—” Bittle puts his hand over Jack’s on Jack’s leg and says, “It has been my privilege to play with you, Jack.”

 

And Jack surprises himself in his daring, and turns his hand over and presses his palm into Bitty’s, and says, “Thank you.”

 

Bittle inhales sharply but curls his fingers around Jack’s. He exhales slowly, and meets Jack’s eyes.

 

 

_/  _/  _/  _/  _/  _/  _/

 

When Jack was first offered the title of Captain for the Samwell team, he thought about saying no. He felt sorry for himself almost all of the time, back then.

 

He used to think about Parse, with his Cup and his paycheck and his beach house, and he used to wish he could redo any number of things in his life.

 

He’d think: _it should have happened like this_.

 

\\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_

 

 

It happens like this:

 

He turns his palm into Bittle’s and Bittle says, “Oh.” He squeezes Jack’s fingers. “Everything changes.”

 

“Doesn’t all have to be awful,” Jack says, feeling braver than ever before.

 

And then, faster than Jack can blink, Bittle is in Jack’s lap. His legs bracket Jack’s thighs, and Jack presses his mouth to Bittle’s like it’ll kill him if he doesn’t.

 

Jack’s hands shake a bit at his sides, but when Bitty grabs them and places them on the sides of his face, Jack feels them settle.

 

For all that his heart is racing, he feels calm in a way he hasn’t in a long, long time.

 

“Tell me to stop,” Bittle says, as he bites at Jack’s lip.

 

Jack shakes his head—no—and tugs softly at Bitty’s hair. His hands run down Bittle’s back, and he pulls him into him as much as he’s able. Jack leans back and Bitty follows him, leans over Jack comfortably where Jack is laying on his bed.

 

Bittle pulls away from Jack and blinks heavily. “I uh,” he hesitates, and Jack is worried that he’s about to pull away entirely when he says, “I just want to be up front. I like you a lot. Like. A lot, a lot. And I’m totally flattered if you just want to,” he waves in front of his face with his hand that isn’t holding him up over Jack, “y’know. But I don’t know if I’m okay with—“

 

Jack interrupts him by reaching up to kiss him hard on the mouth. “That’s good, Bitty,” he says, pausing to kiss him again. “That’s really good. I’m,” he kisses him again, “the same.”

 

Bitty kisses Jack hard, and Jack thinks that if his teeth could bruise, this would do it.

 

Jack reaches down and grabs Eric’s ass, and he grinds down into Jack. He does it again, and moves to breathe into Jack’s neck.

 

“Those squats have been working,” Jack says, and Bittle giggles.

 

“Thank you,” he says, and when he looks at Jack, Jack can see the blush spreading down his neck. Jack reaches for the hem of his shirt, and he pulls until Bittle raises his arms, and he gets it off. While Jack runs his hands over Bittle’s abdomen, Bittle says, “Yours too.” Jack sits up and pulls his own t-shirt over his head.

 

Bittle’s eyes linger over Jack’s chest, and when he meets Jack’s eye, he flushes. “You’re really. Uhm.”

 

“You, too,” Jack says. And then Bitty pushes Jack back down and settles between his legs again.

 

When Jack has to pull his mouth away from Bittle’s to breathe, he bites at Bittle’s neck and reaches for his fly.

 

“Okay?” he asks.

 

Bittle pushes himself into Jack’s hands, and says, “God.”

 

Jack rubs at Bittle’s erection through his pants and says, “That’s not a ‘yes.’”

 

“Jack,” he keens. “Yes, oh my God.”

 

He pops the button and unzips Bittle’s jeans. Bitty climbs off him to shuck off his pants, and Jack takes his own off while he’s able.

 

When Bitty leans back towards Jack, Jack flips them so that he’s leaning over him. When he presses their bodies flush against one another, Bitty says, “Oh my—“ and Jack groans.

 

He leans on his left forearm and reaches his right palm towards Bittle’s mouth. He takes the hint and licks Jack’s palm, and when Jack wraps his hand around both of their erections, Jack’s breath catches.

 

Bittle moans, “Jack,” when Jack moves his wrist over them both.

 

“You’re going to have to stop saying my name like that,” Jack says, breathy, “If you want this to last longer than two seconds.”

 

Bitty thrusts up into Jack’s hand, and says, “Jack,” low and drawn out. He kisses the side of Jack’s face, his cheek, until he hovers his mouth in front of Jack’s and says, “Jack,” again, just softly enough that the emotion in it makes Jack’s breath catch and his hips sputter.

 

“Tabarnac,” he says, and licks into Bittle’s mouth.

 

“Fuck,” Bittle says, and he bites Jack’s lip again.

 

Jack comes over his own hand and Bittle’s stomach. Bittle’s eyes snap closed and he leans his head back. Jack takes the opportunity to bite at Bittle’s neck, and then he comes too.

 

Jack rolls over to lay on his back, and waits until Bittle catches his breath. Jack works on keeping his head clear, on feeling the way Bittle’s thigh feels against his, the way his elbow feels pressed into Bittle’s bicep, the way Bittle is breathing evenly next to him.

 

Jack wants to remember this, this warm safety that exists in this shitty room in this shitty Haus.

 

Bittle’s fingers softly trace the inside of Jack’s forearm, and Jack rolls onto his side to face him.

 

“You okay?” Bittle asks.

 

Jack smiles and catches Bitty’s lips between his. “I’m good,” he says, and he finds that he really, really means it.

 

\\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_

 

They fall asleep, and by the time Jack wakes up, he can hear music downstairs and the sound of people talking over each other, laughing.

 

He wakes Bittle by running his finger over Bittle’s cheek until he stirs. His eyes flutter and his lips curl up softly at the corners. “Hmm,” he hums. “Hi.”

 

“Hey,” Jack says, nervous. “We should get dressed. There are people downstairs. Also, I’m hungry.”

 

Bittle leans up on his elbows. “Okay, yes. People, food. Both good.”

 

Jack catches Bitty looking at his butt when he pull on his jeans, and they end up kissing against the door, fully dressed.

 

Bittle pulls back, says, “We really should go downstairs.”

 

Jack steps back, runs his hands down the front of his own shirt. “Yes, okay, yeah. Right.”

 

Bittle smiles at him fondly, and takes a deep breath. “Gosh,” he says, and Jack is so fond of him that he smiles back.

 

“There’s something,” Jack says. “I don’t want to ruin the mood, but it’s important.”

 

Bittle sobers quickly, nods, “Okay.”

 

“I’m not ready to come out, publicly, I mean. Or to many people, really. I’m not ready for that, yet. Georgia knows, and she likes you, but it’s—“

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“You can’t tell anyone,” Jack says. “You can’t tweet about it, and you can’t say it on your video thing.”

 

“I know.”

 

“It’s really important. If someone asks if you have a boyfriend, you’ll have to say no.”

 

Bittle nods, determined, says, “Yes, I—“ and then pauses, and breaks out into a grin. “Wait? Boyfriend?”

 

“Uhm,” Jack says. “Well yeah, I mean, if you want. I did ask for your help looking for a place to live, so…”

 

Bittle leans up and kisses Jack softly. “I’d like that,” he says. “I promise.” He mimes locking his lips shut and throwing away the key, and Jack smiles.

 

When Jack ushers Bitty down the stairs, Shitty spots them, smirks at Jack, and Jack feels his face flush.

 

And suddenly Shitty is standing on the coffee table and the frogs are there, and Ransom and Holster, and Shitty shouts, “Oh captain, my captain,” and everyone raises their drinks at Jack, and Jack thinks: _o_ _kay_.

 

\\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_

 

Once the party dies down, Jack sneaks into Bittle’s room.

Bitty is beer-sleepy and curled on his side, and when Jack crawls in behind him, he hums happily. He drunkenly reaches behind him to find Jack’s hand, and pulls Jack’s arm around his middle.

 

Bittle falls back to sleep immediately, and Jack pulls the comforter over them.

 

Jack has made any number of mistakes in his life, but if all of them led to this little moment—his nose tucked into the nape of Eric Bittle’s neck and his heart full in a way he hasn’t ever felt—he can’t bring himself to regret any of them.

 

 

 

\\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_  \\_

 

Jack sits behind Bittle’s parents with the rest of the team who is still around new England, and when Bittle walks across the stage, they all holler.

 

Bitty takes the fancy piece of paper and exits stage left, and then Jack realizes that they still have another 24 letters in the alphabet to get through, and he thinks: Tabarnac.

 

By the end of the ceremony, his neck is stiff. When it’s over, Bitty’s mother hugs him, says she’s very proud of him, that they watch his games at home whenever they’re able. He flushes, and thanks her. He says, “Congratulations on Eric’s graduation. You must be very proud,” and she hugs him again, her eyes big and wet.

 

When Bittle comes into the ground and finds his parents, he hugs them both, and clings to his mother in a way that tugs at Jack’s heartstrings.

 

And then Shitty is rushing over, and he yells, “Bits, my man!” and Bittle turns to hug Shitty just as tightly.

 

Jack catches Bitty’s eye over Shitty’s shoulder, and Bittle smiles. He mouths Hi silently and as Shitty releases him, he pats Shitty’s shoulder. Jack sticks his hand out to shake Bitty’s hand, and Bitty rolls his eyes.

 

“Oh my God, Jack,” he hears Shitty say, and Bitty bats his hand away and hugs him.

 

“Thanks for coming,” Bitty says into Jack’s chest.

 

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he says, and he finds that it’s true.

 

He pulls away because they have definitely been hugging for too long considering that Bittle’s parents are three feet away, and he says, “Can I talk to you for a second?”

 

Bitty turns to his mom and dad and says, “I’ll just be a sec, okay? I have to ask Jack something about…hockey. I’ll be back in a jiff.”

 

Jack walks a few away to where the crowd has thinned out, and then he says, “I’m proud of you.”

 

Bitty shrugs. “Is everything okay?”

 

Jack nods. “I wanted to ask you something, but I want you to think about it. I know you’ve been looking for jobs around here. But I wanted to run something by you, first. You don’t have to say anything, okay?”

 

Bitty looks worried, and Jack says, “Montreal offered me a contract. My term with Prov comes up at the end of the season. And, well. The Habs offered me more, a lot more, and I’ve always wanted to play for them and—“

 

“Yes,” Bitty says. “Of course, yes.”

 

“I haven’t even asked you anything,” Jack says, confused.

 

Bitty beams at him, shakes his head softly. “Jack Zimmerman,” his voice full of fondness. “You say yes to that contract as soon possible, and I’ll move with you. If that’s what you want.”

 

“Of course that’s what I want. If you would let me finish asking—“

 

“Okay, okay, ask me.”

 

“If you already know what I’m going to say—“

 

“Jack. Please ask.”

 

Jack huffs. “Will you live with me? In Montreal?”

 

“Yes,” he says, and turns to look over his shoulder. His parents are turned the other way, engaged in an animated conversation with Shitty about God knows what. “I want to kiss you. I’m going to kiss you until you suffocate as soon as we’re somewhere else.”

 

Jack blushes, and squeezes Bittle’s hand quickly. “I’ve been looking at places. There’s a small house outside the city with a pond, a yard. I was thinking, how do you feel about dogs?”

**Author's Note:**

> title is taken from a stanley kubrick quote: 
> 
> "I’ve never been certain whether the moral of the Icarus story should only be, as is generally accepted, ‘don’t try to fly too high,’ or whether it might also be thought of as ‘forget the wax and feathers, and do a better job on the wings.'"
> 
> //find me on [tumblr](http://www.bittyjack.tumblr.com).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] forget the wax and the feathers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5124539) by [annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annapods/pseuds/annapods)




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